


Call it a Draw

by Kedreeva



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crime Fighting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sciles, Scott/Stiles - Freeform, Skittles, alpha!Scott, scittles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlet for Daunt from a prompt she sent ages ago.</p><p>Scott and Stiles as a crime-fighting duo. Patching up wounds and making out!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call it a Draw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daunt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daunt/gifts).



* * *

 

            Stiles rolled in through the doorway, gunfire crackling in the air behind him. Woodchips splintered from the door frame inches shy of his left ear and he closed his eyes to the spray. Inhuman snarls rent the air as Stiles slammed his back into the nearest wall, shaking out a loaded cartridge with trembling hands. He dropped his empty clip to the floor, shoved in the new one, and tried to just _breathe_.

            A pained yelp, like a kicked dog, filtered through the air, followed abruptly by shouting. A moment later the door was thrown roughly open and Isaac limped in between Stiles' crosshairs. He scowled and Stiles returned it, but it was cursory and faded as Isaac collapsed into a heap to the right of the door. The squeal of tires fading into the distance filled the air before silence fell, heavy and full of adrenaline.

            "That could have gone worse," Stiles mumbled numbly.

            "Coulda gone better," Isaac croaked, and Stiles could see the imprint the ropes had left around his neck healing even in the dim light. The bruises would be gone shortly.

            "We saved your ass," Stiles returned, gun still trained on the doorway. He grabbed the empty clip and shoved it into his pocket with his free hand.

            Isaac snorted, rubbing at his raw wrists for a long moment. Finally: "Yeah, thanks."

            Scott stumbled through the doorway before Stiles could say another word. His eyes darted from Isaac to Stiles and back again, assuring himself that both were fine. When the door closed it sent up swirls of dust around his feet, the dim light catching the particles and turning them into ghostly grey beams.

            "You okay?" Stiles asked, and it was up in the air which of the wolves he meant. Isaac pulled a face and then clambered to his feet as Scott took to his knees beside Stiles.

            "You're bleeding," Scott told Stiles softly, sounding wrecked, exhausted.

            "When am I not bleeding after a night out with you guys?" Stiles asked, huffing a small laugh as he brushed away Scott's fingers. "It's practically a requirement. Come on, I'll be fine."

            He wasn't, not exactly, but sitting on the cold cement floor of an abandoned warehouse wasn't going to help him get any better. So he let Scott help him to his feet, and they trekked across the warehouse, slow and steady. His Jeep awaited them outside and Scott left him at the driver's side door to go back and make sure that the area was clean. It was a while before he returned. Stiles was trying not to think about the bloodstain his Jeep was acquiring the longer he sat in it and Isaac was half asleep in the backseat.

            Scott dumped an armload of eclectically weird things into the backseat, practically onto Isaac's lap. Then he clambered up into the passenger seat and wrinkled his nose at Stiles. "You're bleeding bad, man," he said, and Stiles rolled his eyes as he started the ignition.

            "Just call my dad okay?" he said hotly. They would anonymously tip off the station that the warehouse was hosting a variety of things it shouldn't. The cops would come and they would find the guns and the drugs, and the blood of the men Scott's pack had just chased out.

            What they wouldn't find was the pile of arcane goods Isaac was currently sorting through in the back seat. They wouldn't find the containers of herbs or the dagger forged in blood, or any of the weird, carved bones. It would be a _normal_ case for his father, and the _supernatural_ end of it would get buried in Deaton's home collection with no one any the wiser.

            So they drove, and Scott disguised his voice on the phone in really horrible ways that sent Isaac into peals of teasing laughter after he'd hung up. Stiles would have joined, but laughing made it hurt worse and so he white-knuckled the steering wheel and managed to get them to the clinic in one piece. Deaton was waiting for them, ushered them inside as he flipped the sign to 'Closed' and locked the door behind them.

            "How was it?" he asked, shuffling them toward the back room.

            "Stiles is-" Scott began.

            "Fine. Stiles is _fine_ ," Stiles said, dumping his portion of the arcane cache on the surgery table. "You need to get this stuff out of here fast. Scott can patch me up, okay?"

            Deaton frowned at that, as did Isaac, but they'd had this argument dozens of times now and Stiles never got any less stubborn and he _had_ driven himself to the hospital the only time his injuries had been serious enough to warrant it. So he let the boys debrief to him quickly as he sorted through what they had brought him from the witches, making piles and wrapping items until there were just a few packages on the table rather than half a collection of things which might have gotten any of them arrested.

            "Do you need a ride?" he asked Isaac, softly, when the conversation had petered out. "It's getting late."

            Isaac rolled one shoulder in a shrug and looked to Scott for an order Scott wouldn't give. He may have been the alpha but he'd never stripped them of their choices, no matter their instincts. "Sure," Isaac consented, slithering off the counter.

            After passing Isaac half the packages, Deaton turned to Scott and Stiles. "I want both of you to check in tomorrow morning."

            "Yes," Scott and Stiles agreed as one. They exchanged a look, hiding grins.

            "I mean it, boys," Deaton told them. "No later than nine."

            They both mumbled another agreement and then Deaton was gone, Isaac at his heels, and Stiles let out a sigh of relief. Scott scowled at him and the second he heard the front door latch his fingers were seeking the zipper of Stiles' hoodie, sliding it off of his shoulders, and Stiles winced as Scott peeled the black fabric away from the sticky wound.

            "Shit," Stiles breathed out, letting Scott gingerly pick at his shirt, rucking it up so he could get a better look.

            "You're going to need stitches," Scott told him, low and intense as he stared. Scott's skin was black where he touched Stiles and he could feel him relaxing by fractions.

            "You've done it before," Stiles reminded him, eyes closed, soaking up the relief. Scott's hands slid warm up his ribs, taking fabric with them, and Stiles swallowed the cry of pain that welled up when he had to raise an arm to remove the shirt.

            Stiles hissed and batted at Scott's hand when he pressed a finger into the knife wound just below Stiles' ribs, along his side. A little to the left and a different angle and Stiles would have been missing a kidney. Thankfully it was shallow, though dirty, and Scott disappeared to find the tools to clean it properly.  Keeping his eyes closed, Stiles let Scott rinse away the blood that had congealed, pick away the rough edges, flush the cut until it bled fresh, clean crimson.

            He watched with a certain amount of fascination as Scott held the edges of the cut together with blackened fingers, sewing skin like cloth until there was only a slightly jagged seam. It would scar, like the other trophies Stiles had earned while defending their hometown from the supernatural. He wouldn't bear the mark with any amount of pride, wouldn't show it off to anyone, or even mention it. Scott would run his fingers over it in the dead of night, like he did the others, but he wouldn't say anything either.

            When it was bandaged, clean white gauze standing out starkly from his skin, Scott smoothed one hand over it, let his palm rest warm on Stiles' hip. Stiles leaned forward, just slightly, until his forehead touched Scott's. "I'm fine," he murmured.

            Scott's nose wrinkled, but he could hear the steady beat of Stiles' heart and he knew that Stiles believed what he said. But all Scott could smell was blood and anti-septic, and he nuzzled down into the crook of Stiles' neck to escape it. "I know," he mumbled, words muffled by Stiles' skin.

            When Stiles' long fingers threaded into Scott's hair, his eyes closed. He shuffled close to the table, bracketed by Stiles' knees, wrapping his arms around Stiles' waist. Low and smooth, Stiles hummed and rubbed his cheek against Scott's temple, not bothering to hide the smile that crept onto his lips.

            "I wish you'd take it," Scott breathed, hooking his chin over Stiles' shoulder. Stiles sighed, fingers tightening in Scott's hair just slightly.

            "I know," Stiles told him quietly. Because he _did_ know, but he couldn't. He could play in the world of the wolves, he could stand at Scott's side while they chased supernatural crime, but he couldn't take the bite. He couldn't, not while his dad still needed him.

            He wanted to, god he wanted to, and if Scott ever asked him, he might not have the strength to say no. But Scott would never _ask_ him to take it. He had offered it, one time, a year ago, when Stiles had been ashen in a hospital bed after a fight, and Stiles was not ashamed to admit he had begged him not to ask again.

            Scott lifted his head and Stiles brought his hands up, palms smoothing over Scott's jaw. Before Scott could start an argument, Stiles was kissing him, soft and slow, jumping a little as Scott's fingers tightened on his hips. Then Scott was kissing back, and Stiles hummed, running his tongue slick over Scott's bottom lip. Stiles didn't jump when he felt the edge of teeth nipping at his lips, knowing they were blunt and human.

            "Scott," Stiles said softly, and Scott growled. The sound spiked through Stiles and he shivered, fingers curling in the hair at the nape of Scott's neck. "Come on, I'm not doing this here."

            He felt the curve of Scott's smile against his lips, the puff of laughter. "Not what you said last week."

            Eyes rolling, Stiles tightened his grip on Scott's hair to reprimand him, but he was smiling as well. "And you saw those weird-ass bruises the next day. So, not here."

            Tipping his head, Scott laid feathery kisses along Stiles' jaw until he had tilted his head back, exposed the long column of his neck to the wolf. Scott wasted no time sucking a mark to the pulse line of his throat, but Stiles only gave him the chance for one before he scooted his hips forward. Scott could have stopped him, could have held his ground, but he let Stiles push off the edge of the table and onto the floor.

            Their fingers threaded together and Stiles began to drag him toward the exit. Scott dug his heels in and Stiles glanced over his shoulder to see what was up. "Your dad?" Scott reminded him. "Shouldn't you- what?" he asked, because Stiles was grinning the sort of shit-eating grin that meant he was delighting in some sort of mischief.

            "I already told my dad I was staying over," Stiles admitted. He raised both eyebrows, and Scott gave a laugh at his audacity, but he allowed himself to be lead from the building. The roar of the Jeep peeling out of the parking lot echoed through the empty clinic in their wake.

 


End file.
